


Whisper

by FyrMaiden



Series: 2013 Klaine Advent [1]
Category: Glee
Genre: Body Worship, Fluff, M/M, PWP, softcore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-23
Updated: 2015-07-23
Packaged: 2018-04-10 19:52:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4405286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FyrMaiden/pseuds/FyrMaiden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, love is a physical need.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whisper

_‘I love you,’ breathed soft into one another’s mouths._

They take a taxi back from the clerk’s office, Blaine’s hand tucked inside of Kurt’s. Blaine’s smile is wide, and Kurt’s colour is high, and they sit pressed together hip to knee the entire journey. Blaine’s mouth keeps finding the corner of Kurt’s jaw, and Kurt’s fingers squeeze Blaine’s tight, and the only words on Blaine’s tongue are a repeat of words said thousands of times before, by thousands of mouths, and perhaps never meant more. “I love you,” he says, again, quietly, and, when Kurt looks at him, his eyes are full of emotion.

“I love you most,” he says, softly, catching Blaine’s face with his free hand, thumb tracing the shadow of stubble there before he leans in to claim another willing kiss from Blaine’s eager mouth.

_Nimble fingers on tiny buttons. The swoosh of silk on cotton, the glide of cotton on skin._

They almost don’t make it up the stairs to the loft. Blaine’s fingers keep playing with the buttons of Kurt’s coat, and his vest. Kurt’s laughter is musical and it sends shivers down Blaine’s spine to hear it, to think he gets to hear it every day, forever.

Once they’re inside, Kurt pins Blaine against the door, kisses him eager and hungry and desperate, like it’s been hours instead of minutes, like they couldn’t count the seconds since he last tasted the inside of Blaine’s mouth. Blaine pulls back only to breathe, to focus on the tiny silk buttons of Kurt’s vest, to fumble with numb fingertips at the tiny pearly buttons of his dress shirt. He grunts in frustration, and meets Kurt’s eyes, full of the same desperate understanding. Kurt’s fingers are quicker on the knot of Blaine’s bowtie, pulling it from his collar with a victorious tug, and Blaine closes his eyes as his knees threaten to buckle.

He crows his own victory when he brandishes Kurt’s tie and drops it without ceremony to the floor beside him, manages to undo Kurt’s top button and leans in to kiss down his throat, breathing in the scent of his cologne and his skin and the rush of adrenaline. Kurt is his, always and entirely, and they don’t need to rush for stolen moments ever again.

He still wants Kurt out of his shirt, and his desperate hands give up on the buttons and just tear.

Kurt doesn’t say anything when Blaine’s lips find his collarbone, or as his shirt and vest and coat slip from his shoulders, only rolls his head back and wishes, abstractly, that he could strip Blaine’s clothes from his perfect body with the power of thought alone.

_Hands on bare shoulders, on waists, the pull of a zipper._

Blaine’s hands are strong, his shoulders powerful. Kurt wraps his fingers around his bicep when he finally gets Blaine’s shirt from his body. He’s struck dumb, not for the first time, by the care Blaine takes with his appearance, and how he’ll be the only person who gets to reap the rewards of Blaine’s meticulous workouts ever again. He slides his hands down Blaine’s arms, argues with his cufflinks and throws them across the room in disgust when they’re finally removed, and lets Blaine’s shirt puddle on the floor, pulls Blaine towards him by his belt.

Inch by slow inch, foot by foot, kiss for traded kiss, they make their way across the lounge to Kurt’s – their – bedroom. Blaine stops Kurt outside of the curtain and finds the manual dexterity unhook his belt. Kurt bites his lip and exhales through his nose as the leather pulls at his hips and lands in a discarded coil on the floor, and his fingers stick in Blaine’s hair, scrape through the gel and tangle hard and desperate, as Blaine sinks slowly to his knees, calloused fingers making short work of his buttons, hands dragging pants and briefs from his hips rough enough for blunt nails to catch his skin.

When Kurt catches Blaine’s amber eyes through the frame of his eyelashes, he can only offer a nod and a breathless affirmation before Blaine’s tongue flicks out to tease and taste before he draws him into his mouth, hands on Kurt’s hips and waist and ass, hum of affirmation and supplication vibrating in his throat as he draws Kurt deeper in.

_The cold hard of yellow gold warming on winter white skin, and the exhalation of breath that forms a curse and a plea and the rounded vowels of a name._

The only thing Kurt can focus on, the only thing that keeps him from losing himself in Blaine utterly, is the new weight of Blaine’s ring against his skin. It’s warm now, warmed by Blaine’s heat, but it’s new against his body. It’s different. It’s a constant reminder whenever Blaine’s fingers flex against his skin, whenever Blaine tugs at him, and it coils tight inside of him faster than it has since he was 16, since their first fumbling attempts. His fingers slip to Blaine’s jaw, thumb stroking the hinge of it, and when Blaine pulls back, his chin is spit slick and his lips are cherry red, and his eyes are desperate. “I want,” he whispers, and Kurt nods his understanding, and Blaine’s tongue and the heat of his mouth are back around his balls, his pianist fingers drawing a symphony from inside of Kurt in staccato exhalation.

“Fuck, Christ, B-Blaine, stop don’t please,” and he’s unravelling so fast, too fast. Blaine pulls back again, smiles and bites his lip and pushes himself upright, captures Kurt’s mouth with his own, takes him in his hand instead.

“Come,” he breathes against the shell of Kurt’s ear, and it’s all it takes for Kurt to bury his face in the crook of Blaine’s neck and let go, body trembling, Blaine’s ring too hot against his skin now for him to concentrate on anything else.

_The susurration of bedsheets as they slip unremarked from a perfect bed, and the whomp of depressed air as two bodies hit an age-soft mattress and sink._

Kurt feels part boneless, after, the way he always does. Blaine’s hands keep him upright as he untangles his feet from the pool of his trousers. As Blaine strips himself naked of his own soiled pants, Kurt pushes their sheets into a pile on the far side of the bed and turns back to face Blaine. Blaine’s hair is a mess, the gel cracked but holding in angular spikes. Kurt thinks he needs sunlight, his skin paler than usual after a too-early too-cold fall. He could be a god, though, carved from marble, his proportions are so good, his legs strong and his shoulders broad and his waist small.

He stops thinking at all when Blaine catches his hands and drags him down with him into their bed, the mattress huffing air and the box-spring creaking loud in the cavernous silence. Once they’re settled, he worms his way down Blaine’s body, stopping to lave his tongue across Blaine’s sensitive nipples, over each of his ribs as Blaine’s spine arches him up into Kurt’s touch, into his bellybutton, fingers ghosting soft in the backs of Blaine’s knees and against the trembling muscles of his thighs.

“Turn over,” he breathes, sitting back on his heels and rolling the stud he sometimes forgets is in his tongue across the seam of his lips. Blaine’s eyes go wide and he actually whimpers as he rolls onto his stomach, as Kurt settles between his legs and kisses down his back, presses the stud in his tongue into the dip of his spine and the curve of his ass, presses Blaine down as he pushes up into him. “Patience,” he says, and grins as Blaine buries his face in his forearm.

Blaine has always been fast to unravel, his body responding eagerly to touch and stimulation. Kurt takes his time, hinting, teasing, taking Blaine apart a piece at a time, until Blaine’s body is sticky with want and sweat and Kurt feels like he’s drowning in the smell of him.

Blaine comes apart fast when Kurt’s tongue finally pushes inside of him, fingers tightening in the pillow, Kurt’s name a broken entreaty that’s muffled where he buries his face, and Kurt pushes deeper, hungrier, the litany of Blaine’s words almost musical as he works.

Blaine comes in his own hand, hard and shaking and without warning, pulsing around Kurt’s tongue, and Kurt kisses his ass and hauls him over by his hip as he pulls away. Blaine’s chest heaves and he wipes his hand on the side of the bed, beckons Kurt down beside him. “Love you,” he says, breathless into Kurt’s throat, and Kurt only hums assent.

_Laughter and traded kisses, and dry hands on overheated skin, and the beep of a text asking if it’s safe to come home…_

It’s Kurt who gathers the sheet from the floor and tosses the excess pillows off the bed whilst Blaine gathers a washcloth from the bathroom. It’s Kurt who pulls Blaine into the warmth of his body and kisses his nose. It’s Blaine who tangles their legs and fingers together, and who drifts to sleep first.

It’s Kurt who is awake enough to hear his phone chime with Rachel’s text alert, who is sentient enough to disentangle himself from the alluring warmth of Blaine to retrieve his phone from his coat pocket, and to plug Blaine’s in whilst he’s upright.

It’s Blaine who burrows his face into Kurt’s chest and asks sleepily what’s happening, and who hums when Kurt’s hand smoothes his hair.

It’s Kurt who texts Rachel back and says yes, it’s fine, so long as she brings food with her.

It’s Blaine who whispers ‘husband’ into Kurt’s palm, though, and Kurt can’t help the smile the flickers on his lips before he closes his eyes and joins Blaine in sleep.


End file.
